How Goldfish can lead to War
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: Sherlock gets Mycroft a goldfish for his birthday; Mycroft is amused, and retaliates. Things escalate from there. Kind of AU, because it's after their conversation in TEH, but John is living at Baker Street. If you want, you can see it as when he's avoiding Mary after learning she was an assassin. Warning: here there be fluffiness, at least towards the end.
1. Mycroft's Birthday Present

Mycroft had not been expecting any presents for his birthday, besides the standard card from his parents and a wishing of many happy returns from the Prime Minister. He certainly didn't expect to get anything from his younger brother, except maybe a snide text telling him not to eat too much birthday cake. So when he came to work as usual, he was surprised at the sight of a large, brightly wrapped box sitting on his desk. He looked over at Anthea-why she continued going under that alias was one of the few things he didn't know about her, something that he found to be a constant irritant.

"Where did this come from?"

"It was found on the front doorstep this morning," she answered, not even looking up from her Blackberry. "We've already scanned it; it does not appear to be a bomb, or contain any kind of poison or weapon. But there is something alive inside."

Now his curiosity was piqued. Mycroft laid aside his paperwork, approached the package. There did not appear to be a message on it; just in case, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves from the desk, slipped them on, and finally began untying the enormous red bow on the top. He gave a nod to Anthea, who tapped out a message on the Blackberry requesting backup if anything was about to happen. Mycroft undid the wrapping paper, and found a cardboard box with a few minute holes. Now very curious, he opened it-and exposed a large goldfish bowl, with a screwed-on lid with holes in it, containing a beautiful specimen of a blue koi fish. A certain conversation with a certain annoying sibling sprang to mind.

"_If __you_ _seem slow to __me__, Sherlock, imagine what normal people are like-I'm living in a world of goldfish."_

Slowly, Mycroft's hand raised, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. But to his surprise, instead of just feeling annoyed or exasperated, there was something else being stimulated in his hippocampus. Amusement? Yes, Mycroft Holmes was actually amused. Still exasperated, but he had the oddest desire to laugh at this latest action taken by his brother. It was uncommon nowadays, but not unwelcome. Nobody was hurt, and this prank was only to irritate him.

_Well, Sherlock. if you're in the mood for a game, then let the games begin._

He picked up his phone, and sent off a quick text.

_**Very funny, Sherlock. -MH**_


	2. The Rebuttal

Sherlock Holmes sprawled gleefully across the sofa, phone clasped over his heart, staring up at the ceiling. John Watson sat in his chair, perched on the Union Jack flag pillow, typing on his laptop. Sherlock could tell from the emphatic way in which his fingers hit the keys that he was irritated with him-again-but resigned to the situation, so trying to avoid openly expressing it. Well, too bad. This was the most fun Sherlock had had in _weeks_; he was determined to enjoy it. Just then his phone buzzed; a text message. He opened it, and smirked.

"The package has been received!" he announced.

"That's nice."

"...Do you want to know what he said?"

"No, not really."

Sherlock frowned at John. "You're not the least bit curious?"

"No, Sherlock." John glared over his laptop back at him. "I'm not getting involved in this. Every time I get caught in the crossfire between you and Mycroft, something bad happens to me. I get kidnapped, or forced to run errands I don't want to do, or something equally unpleasant, and right now I'm really not up for it."

Sherlock tried to think of why John was so irritable. It wasn't like him to refuse to be involved in Sherlock's business; as much as he would complain about it, he loved the thrill of the danger, and the fact that he could be useful to someone by watching Sherlock's back. Had it been because of a hard day at work yesterday? No, he hadn't seemed to experience any particularly difficult clients; Sherlock hadn't dragged him away on a case (because there hadn't been any; that's why he needed to do this! BORED!); he'd had a good night's sleep for once, so that couldn't be what was making him cranky either. The flat wasn't any messier than usual, there was only the standard collection of body parts and blood samples in the fridge, he hadn't borrowed John's gun to shoot the walls at all-was it because they were out of milk again? Was he angry at Sherlock for not buying milk? That didn't make sense; he knew Sherlock never bought the milk, why would it be upsetting him now? But just in case, he said tentatively, "If this is about our not having milk-"

_Slam!_

John banged his laptop shut, in a way that made even Sherlock jump. He stood up, tucking it under his arm so Sherlock couldn't steal it, and said, "Forget it. I didn't think you'd understand." And with that, he stomped up to his room. Sherlock wondered about it for a moment, before deciding to analyze what was irritating his friend later. He went back to gloating over being able to pull one over on Mycroft. And then his phone rang: Lestrade, with a case! Hallelujah!

*^##^*

That night, he suggested to John that they go eat at Angelo's, in an attempt to bring him out of whatever bad mood was affecting him. John agreed readily enough, and while there Sherlock forced himself to eat an entire dish of pasta primavera. He wasn't actually hungry, but John liked it when he had regular meals; apparently, that was a Very Good Thing. It seemed to work somewhat; the frown lines in John's face smoothed out as he ate his own meal, and he allowed Sherlock to bombard him with news of the new case he was working on. It wasn't the most interesting one he'd ever had: merely some woman who was convinced that her husband was trying to kill her and she didn't know why. But John processed the details, and asked questions about the case, giving Sherlock a chance to explain his genius yet again. So by the time they set off back to Baker Street, the detective felt that things were going well again, and that nothing bad would happen to disrupt the peace that was back between them. He should have known not to trust those kinds of feelings.

As they entered the front door and came to the stairwell, Sherlock saw a splash of mud on the carpet; someone with dirty shoes had climbed the stairs. Both his and John's shoes were clean, and it was a man's shoe, size 9 ½, obviously ruling out Mrs. Hudson. An intruder! But Mrs. Hudson was sitting peacefully in her room, watching soap operas, so at least she wasn't in danger. Due to the impressions in the carpet, they had come and gone. There were about three men, not just one, he realized, all about the same size and build; they'd made several trips. What in the name of all that was holy? Sherlock sprinted up the stairs, ignoring John's surprised exclamation; after a moment, John hurried up after him, pulling out his gun.

_Good man; even though they're gone and you don't understand what's happening, you're still taking precautions. Maybe I should have mentioned the flat is empty?_

Cautiously, the two men peered into the flat. Sure enough, no sign of the intruders. Nothing seemed to have been touched-and then Sherlock looked to the kitchen. A fresh smudge on the floor, and a few drops of blood leading in a trail from-the fridge. A wave of horror absorbed Sherlock.

_NO!_

He dashed to it, yanked it open, and screamed.

X X

"Sherlock?!" John went to the fridge, wondering what on earth could be in it that could possibly make Sherlock scream. He honestly couldn't think of anything; even an entire corpse stuffed in there would just make him wonder how it had been done. He ducked under Sherlock's arm, which was still holding the door open in shock, and found himself staring into the face of-a bottle of milk.

Real, unopened, fresh milk. What's more, there appeared to be jam, cold cuts, vegetables, fruits, cheeses, even a thing of chicken he could cook on the stove. And all the body parts were gone. The baggies of blood samples, the thumb collection, even the head whose brains Sherlock had been dissecting. There wasn't a trace of them.

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock howled in outrage, stepping back and swinging his fists through the air at nothing. "This was you, I know it was! Show yourself, you great fat sneak! Come on!"

"Easy, Sherlock," John cautioned. "Calm down, it's no big deal-"

"No big deal?! This means war!"

Later, when he happened to find his missing corpse samples in the rubbish bins outside, Sherlock was not appeased; instead, he began ranting and whining about how they were no good now, because they'd been exposed to the open air too long, and contaminated with the other rubbish. He also started planning his revenge on Mycroft. John just shook his head and made them each a cup of tea.


	3. Sherlock's Turn Again

It had been almost a week since Mycroft's birthday. And since nothing had happened, he knew that Sherlock was up to something. He'd been doing close surveillance of Baker Street daily; Sherlock and John had not left except to solve the case of the paranoid woman (rightly so, it turned out; her husband was seeing another woman, hadn't told her he was married, and so was trying to get rid of his wife so he could keep the deception going), go grocery shopping (John), and take a walk around the park because he was angry with Sherlock (John again). Possibly they were trying to lure him into a sense of false security because they were 'even' now; Sherlock had made his move, Mycroft had made his, equilibrium had been restored. Mycroft wasn't fooled. And he knew that his brother knew that he wasn't fooled. There seemed to be nothing to do but wait.

Thursday night, the bomb landed. In a manner of speaking. Mycroft was at the Diogenes Club, taking some time to relax from a hard day's work, when his phone vibrated. Since you could hear a pin drop in that place, it was quite loud. However, the other club members were used to it by now, and since Mycroft was also one of the founders, nobody so much as glared disapprovingly at him. Mycroft picked up his phone and checked the message. It was from his chief security staff. Before he could open it, another message popped up; this time from Sherlock. Mycroft had a feeling that the two messages were connected. Just to spite Sherlock, he read the other message first, so as to avoid his brother's gloating for the moment.

_**Someone unknown has blacked out all the security cameras surrounding your residence using spray paint. Have positioned guards everywhere, am now searching the grounds for intruders. Should I send backup to you?**_

Mycroft sent back a reply.

_**Am at Safe Place; don't fret. Let me know if you find anything. -MH**_

Then he finally checked Sherlock's message.

_**You invaded my inner sanctum, so now I've invaded yours. Hope you enjoy my little present. -SH**_

_**Another one? I'm flattered. -MH**_

No sooner had he answered then another text message from his security popped up; this time there was a picture attached.

_**The scene is safe**_ (meaning there was nobody there who shouldn't be)_**,but we have found sixteen packages of raw meat scattered on your lawn, which have attracted an inordinate number of dogs onto your property.**_

Mycroft looked at the picture. From what remained of the meat-at the time the picture was taken, the dogs were swarming all over it, and it had almost completely vanished-he could see that it had been left in the shape of a smiley face.

_**Is this a new type of threatening message?**_

_**No, it's from my brother. Just update security, and clear out the animals. -MH**_

Mycroft put the phone down. _My turn._

While he thought about it, he went back to the office and fed his fish. As annoying as it had been, he hadn't the heart to get rid of a gift from his brother. Even one made in jest.


	4. Mycroft is a Big Stinker

Two weeks. Two _lousy_ weeks. _Come __on__, Mycroft, make your move! I wanna see what you'll do now, or try to do! Come on, come on, come on, __do_ _something!_

Sherlock paced around the flat, bouncing with impatience. He fully expected Mycroft to retaliate; they were uneven again, and Sherlock's last action had been to actually have the gall to go to Mycroft's _house_, for heavens' sake! He needed him to fight back now, so that Sherlock could either stop the attack in its tracks or retaliate again!

If John had been there, he could have ranted about how unfair it was to him, but John was at work-boring. And somehow, the skull was no good any more. It never gave the same kind of smart-alecky answers John did. It was almost like, now that he'd gotten used to John, or even _addicted_ to John (better not describe himself that way in front of him; he'd frown, and think about drugs and how Not Good he thought they were, and Sherlock didn't like making John unhappy), Yorick just didn't cut it for him anymore. So instead he paced, played the violin, even spent some time standing on his head in the middle of the living room just to try and look at things from a new perspective. He managed to do it successfully after the tenth time he fell down; part of him wondered if this was a little pointless, but he consoled himself by saying that this was a useful exercise. It helped him improve his sense of balance.

When his phone beeped with a text-Lestrade-at about 4 pm, Sherlock could have cried with relief. Another case! He sent a text to John, asking him to prepare to provide assistance if necessary, and dashed off. It was relatively easy to solve-the houseboy did it to keep his gambling debts a secret-and soon Sherlock was once again left with nothing to do. He remembered that John had once strictly forbidden him from coming to the clinic and bugging him while he was trying to work, but what if he just sat quietly in a corner and deduced people? He could hear John's answer to that: _Since when do you __ever_ _sit quietly?_ Well, he'd show him he could.

John naturally objected to his friend's presence, but after Sherlock resorted to begging and pleading, he was allowed to stay, on the condition that he keep his mouth shut as much as possible. Sherlock behaved himself surprisingly well, even according to John. He only made one client cry when he deduced that her boyfriend was cheating on her, and even avoided a fistfight with a man who objected to the detective's calling him out on his eating disorder. And after John's work day finally ended, they set off for home, Sherlock practically bouncing to the curb to hail a cab. Life seemed pretty good; now if only Mycroft would do something he could retaliate to!

He had his wish granted, in the most extreme way possible. Just as they were getting out of the cab that dropped them off at Baker Street, John inhaled deeply through his nose, and made a terrible, grimacing face.

"Did you leave a chemistry experiment on, Sherlock?"

"No."

The doctor glared at him skeptically. By now the detective had taken the time to isolate the terrible smell too, and he said, "I promise, John, I didn't. I don't deny that it's coming from the flat, but I'm 95% sure I am not the cause of it."

After another glance at his face, John nodded. "Okay. Then what is it?"

"It smells a bit like-" Sherlock stopped. "Oh G_."

Once again, they raced up the steps to their flat. On the way, Sherlock saw that the group of men had been back, but this time carrying something heavy, maybe a large box or something. Several large boxes. Please, don't let it be-

They opened the door to see that the flat was filled with skunks. Striped, spotted, hog-nosed and hooded, and ranging in colors from black-and-white to cream. Several fights had broken out between some of the creatures, and the two men could practically see their stench hovering in the air. For several minutes, they could do nothing but stand there in shocked silence, watching the mustiline mammals, before John pulled out his phone and said in a resigned tone, "I'll call pest control."

"Don't bother, John. I'll handle this." Sherlock quickly removed his coat and scarf to protect them, and rolled up his sleeves.

"Uh, Sherlock, do you have any idea how to handle skunks?"

"It can't be too hard. I just need your jacket so I can-"

"Nu-uh. Sorry, I'm not letting you use it as a net to trap skunks. You're on your own for this one." John stepped out of reach and began dialing the number. Sherlock scowled at him, and reluctantly removed his own suit jacket, which meant he had to roll his sleeves back down, take it off, and then roll them up again.

"What are you even going to do with them? You can't throw them out in the street."

"Why not?"

"Because there are other people out there who would not appreciate being suddenly overrun by skunks."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

Unfortunately, he had not stored on his hard drive the fact that even though they usually don't, skunks can bite quite effectively and painfully. The detective also learned very soon afterwards that they can spray you from quite a long distance away.


	5. John's Solution

Pest control was able to get rid of all the skunks after several hours, but they said that the best way to handle the smell would be to let it dissipate over time. And John suspected that they were on Mycroft's payroll, because they offered no advice about how to get the smell off Sherlock, and the man in charge seemed to be trying very hard not to smirk. That was okay, he knew a way to at least mask the smell. There was a way to get rid of it altogether, but somehow they were all out of peroxide, and he intended to get Sherlock out of the flat as soon as possible; they could pick up the necessary ingredients once his friend was comparatively clean and they had somewhere new to stay until the stench was gone. Which was why as Mrs. Hudson went out of the front door carrying her luggage (the smell had wafted all through the building, and most of the people had the same idea), she could hear loud screeches and wails from upstairs, like a scalded cat. She smiled, and shook her head indulgently. Silly boys.

"Aaarrrggghhh! John, I never thought you to be a cruel man, let me out! Aaarrgh!"

Sherlock was a little upset. This might have had something to do with the fact that he was sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed, bound hand and foot, while John liberally doused him in tomato juice.

"You're enjoying this!" he accused. John just poured tomato juice on his head, causing him to splutter and scowl even more. It dribbled through his curls and down onto his face, looking rather ghastly. John tried not to think about the fact that the sight reminded him uncomfortably of when he'd had to watch Sherlock bleeding into the street-_Shut up, that's all in the past. Focus on getting him cleaned off._ He instead grinned down at his friend.

"I didn't want to say I told you so-"

"Then don't!" Sherlock snarled. He sat there, dripping and fuming, and surreptitiously trying to wiggle free.

"Oh, don't be a big baby. It's better than going around smelling like a skunk."

"Says who?" If looks could kill, John would have been convulsing on the ground by now.

"Me. Mrs. Hudson. Everyone who has to be in contact with you. And nobody's going to want to take cases from you otherwise."

"It's not that noticeable!"

"Well, not anymore." John set down the empty bottle with a grin. Sherlock glared.

John leaned over and untied him; Sherlock had been quite unable to undo the ropes himself, despite his best efforts.

"Are you sure you weren't in the Navy instead of the Army?" he demanded as he rubbed his sore wrists.

"Pretty sure. You may just have met your match, Houdini. I think it's been overpowered now. You can wash off. After I leave the bathroom, mind you."

Sherlock pulled off his now-ruined jacket and threw it at John; it caught him right in the chest, leaving stains on his jumper; _good_. Once the doctor was gone, he did take that shower. And planned out how he would avenge himself on Mycroft. Again.


	6. Exodus from Baker Street, and Giving In

If John had thought the row about his method of getting rid of the skunk smell was bad, the one he and his friend got into about needing to leave Baker Street made it pale by comparison. Sherlock wanted to stay in the flat, just to spite Mycroft and prove that he couldn't be forced to leave his own house; John was equally adamant that he had no intention of staying there, and wasn't going to let Sherlock stay in a horribly smelly flat either. Which is why, late that evening, people out in the street were witness to a small, sturdy man running out the front door of 221B Baker Street, carrying a violin case and a skull in his arms. A few moments later there was a scream of rage from a throat that sounded rather hoarse already, and a long-legged man came running out the front door in hot pursuit. The pursuer was the faster of the pair, but he was frustrated in his attempt at reclaiming his belongings when the smaller man leaped into a telephone booth, and somehow managed to hold it shut. The apparent madman immediately began trying to wrench the door open.

"Give them back!" Sherlock demanded. He pulled at the door, banging on the glass wildly.

"Nu-uh!" John shrank as far against the other side of the booth as possible, and held the violin and skull just out of reach. "Not unless you agree that we're leaving the flat until the smell goes down, at least a bit."

Before his friend could start ranting and raving (again), John gave his next argument.

"Please, Sherlock. I can't live in that, especially not for several days in a row. I don't want to have to think about you being stuck in it either; even though it may seem no big deal to you now, it will definitely become one. And I don't want to have to go anywhere without you." He looked down, flushing, when he realized he'd just said that last part out loud. After a moment, he realized Sherlock's angry panting had stopped. He looked to his flatmate through the glass, not sure what he expected to see. Sherlock looked surprised, and even-dare he say it-a little moved. Even though they'd established a while ago that he was John's best friend, the reminder of it was still new to him. Finally, he nodded.

"All right. Just let me get some other things that we'll need. Have you got a place in mind?"

"I was thinking of asking Mike if the sofa's free."

Sherlock snorted. "Of course you had to pick one of your most boring friends."

"Well, I wasn't sure I could really convince you to come with me." John stepped out of the booth, keeping a firm grip on the skull and violin just in case the detective was trying to double-cross him.

"Do you think the sofa will be big enough to accommodate both of us comfortably?"

"If you're coming with me, then I'll sleep on the floor while you take the couch."

"Don't be ridiculous, your shoulder still bothers you, it needs a soft surface." Sherlock strode a little ahead of John back down Baker Street.

"Mike's rug is pretty soft."

"What makes you think I'm even going to be sleeping tonight? You know how little sleep I require."

"Then why did you ask about whether or not the couch could accommodate both of us? Which, by the way, would definitely make people talk."

"I still need somewhere to sit and think. Or lie down and think, if need be."

"He has chairs."

"You're still taking the sofa."

"Absolutely not."

***/****/*/*-*/*-**/-/-*-*/-*-

Despite his protests, somehow John found himself ensconced on Mike's sofa, while Sherlock lay wrapped up in an extra blanket on the floor, barely even aware of the sofa cushion tucked under his head that served as a pillow. Mike had been kind enough to let them stay without asking too many questions, and had even offered the guest room, but they were satisfied with the living room. John's breathing had become soft and even enough that Sherlock was sure he was asleep, when he suddenly sighed and said aloud, "All right, I give in."

"Huh?" Sherlock sat up and looked at him questioningly.

"I'm already involved in this feud, whether I like it or not. So I'll help you with whatever enormous revenge scheme you're cooking up. I can tell it's going to be big, the way things are escalating between you two, and you'll probably get caught if you try to do it yourself. Let me know when you're done thinking it out."

Sherlock's face split into the demented grin that always struck fear into John's heart. "All right. Thank you."

"And I just know I'm going to hate myself for this later," the doctor muttered, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

A couple of hours later, Sherlock knew just what he was going to do, and how to do it. He sat up, shrugged off the blanket, and hovered over the recumbent form of his doctor.

"John!"

No response.

"John!" A shake of the shoulder. Some slight stirring, but he was in an unusually heavy sleep.

"Jo-ohn!" This time, poking him in the ribs, right where he knew John was ticklish.

He received a garbled reply, something like, "Go 'way, S'lock, 'fore I punch you," and then John pulled the sofa cushion he was using as a pillow over his face.

"Don't be hypocritical. You said to let you know when I finished figuring out my plan."

More growling.

"Your primal snarling does not intimidate me in the slightest. Now is the best time to carry it out. Come on, up. I'll explain on the way."

John sat up, removing the sofa cushion.

"No, Sherlock, you can explain while I get a cup of coffee. If you're going to wake me up from a lovely dream to help you have a petty squabble with Mycroft, I'm going to need to be wide awake for it."

Sherlock made a face of impatience. "Do you really need to-"

John's hand grabbed him by the shirt collar, pulled him down to his level. "Did that sound like a request to you?"

Sherlock reminded himself never again to delete the fact that John could be an absolute bear if awakened at 1:23 a.m. "No."

"Good." He released the detective, and then smiled wryly. "Don't worry, I don't need coffee that bad. I just wanted to get that out of my system. So, what's the plan?"


	7. An Ultimatum

_How the h_ had he done it?!_

Mycroft sat at his desk, fingers drumming furiously, wracking his brains. Even he, with all his genius, was taking some time to figure out how Sherlock had managed to waltz into Mycroft's house, even after security had been updated, and walk out again with his entire umbrella collection! It was outrageous, it was unthinkable, it was-it was... He must have had help. As soon as the politician realized that, it all became clearer. It meant that several employees were fired, and replaced. But he was still not satisfied.

This...this was going too far. It was still somewhat amusing, but now Sherlock was making it personal. How would he like it if Mycroft stole all his scarves, or that ridiculously long coat of his, or- He stopped, and after a bit of speculation, an evil smile not unlike that of Sherlock spread across his face. Was it mean? Yes, it most certainly was. Would it infuriate Sherlock beyond belief? Most definitely. Would it be worth it to see the look on his little brother's face? You bet it would. It was time to remind the boy who the dominant Holmes sibling was around here. So he summoned Anthea, and told her to make a call. As she did so, he drummed his fingers on the desk again, missing the feel of his umbrella handle beneath them.

*-/-/****/-*

After they finished giving the last of Mycroft's umbrellas to the homeless network, with strict instructions to hide them until further notice, Sherlock and John tramped back to Mike's place. John collapsed back on the sofa, barely taking the time to remove his shoes, and murmured, "Wake me if any of Mycroft's minions show up to punish us."

"Okay. Though I think when they do come, it will be when neither of us is around. He'll probably try to steal my violin."

"Good. 'll stop you playing it at three in the morning."

Sherlock made a hmphing noise, then cradled his violin in his lap, lovingly stroking the strings. John didn't even complain; he was out like a light, snoring away. Sherlock came to a decision. It would be best (or at least more fun) if he gave Mycroft a challenge. So, after tucking the blanket snugly around John, he put the violin in the case and snuck out, making sure to lock the door behind him.

There was a safe place over in Fleet Street that Sherlock was sure even Mycroft didn't know about; it was only an hour before the violin was stowed away, and he was waltzing back to Mike's flat, pleased at his having anticipated Mycroft's next move, and cut him off from it. But mid-swagger, a sudden thought came to him. Having been deprived of his intended prey, wouldn't Mycroft go for something else? But-no, he wouldn't, surely. He wouldn't stoop that low; after all, his umbrellas were only inanimate objects, it wouldn't be fair-just in case, he broke into a run until he got to the flat. He fumbled at the lock (_the fact it's locked proves nothing-Mycroft's men are nothing if not thorough_), and burst in. Sherlock took a moment for his vision to adjust to the increased darkness, and his fears were confirmed (_why hadn't you thought of that possibility? Idiot, you should know by now that there are no lines Mycroft is not afraid to cross, of course he'd go for the one thing most important to you in retaliation, and to him, other people are just that-things_). The blanket on the sofa was tangled and half on the floor, quite empty of the person who'd been recently snuggled up in it. A rag had been left on the sofa cushion that served as a pillow; when he picked it up, he could smell chloroform, and quickly set it down again to avoid passing out. Most telling of all, John's phone had been left nearby, and when he picked it up, he found a half-finished text message.

_Hearing funny noises outside, suspect-_

Even though he knew this was Mycroft's handiwork, Sherlock couldn't prevent a sharp knife of panic from slicing him inside (_it could be someone who knew about their game, and was using this as an opportunity to hurt the doctor so he could hurt Sherlock_), and after pocketing the phone, he stormed out again, slamming the door. Mike would probably complain in the morning about all the noise they made during the night; well, too bad. Just then his phone beeped.

_You are so naive sometimes, Sherlock. Did you really think I'd go for the violin? -MH_

-/-*-/-*-*/*-*/-/**-*/-

Mycroft didn't have to wait long before his brother burst into his office, snarling, "Where is John?!"

The elder Holmes looked up from feeding his fish (now given a home in a very elegant glass tank, complete with a bubbling treasure chest and some ridiculous decorations he'd had Anthea purchase-just to get into the spirit of the thing) with a facial expression that looked both bemused and amused. "Two presents, and now a social visit? I'm flattered. Can I expect you to come over for Sunday dinner as well?"

Sherlock stormed forward until he was right in Mycroft's face, looking like he was about to grab him by the collar. "Don't try to change the subject! What. Did. You. Do. With. John?!" By the last word, his neck veins were absolutely bulging, and his pale face was flushed with red. It was disconcerting to see him so angry, but somehow, Mycroft stayed calm in the face of it. He said primly, "You can have John back, as soon as you return my umbrellas. All of them."


	8. An Offer of Help

Sherlock's mouth curled, and he stepped away, pacing and snarling like a caged tiger.

"This really is not difficult, Sherlock. You have something I want, I have something you want. It's the law of equivalent exchange."

"What the h_ is that supposed to mean?!" Sherlock demanded.

_I didn't think he'd understand the reference._

"Nothing of importance. All you need to understand is that if you want John, you have to give me my umbrellas."

True to form, Sherlock scowled even harder, and even kicked his feet a little, like he had as a child when someone told him to do something he didn't want to.

_The way you're acting, it's no wonder Moriarty considered John your pet._

Mycroft knew better than to say that out loud, however. Sherlock would probably throw a fit. Or murder him. Or both. Either way, though, he would have to give in eventually.

Sherlock's earlier knife wound of panic had turned into an inferno of rage. And not just because Mycroft had taken someone (not something, John wasn't a thing) that belonged to him, which was reason enough. His pride was hurt. Somehow he had made a mistake, forgotten how ruthless his brother could be, and now his friend was gone. Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to make mistakes, especially concerning John; he should have thought that Mycroft wasn't above taking him, this was his fault, John hadn't wanted to get involve in the first place, even if it was just a game, Mycroft should know better, the last game he'd played on close to this scale had nearly ended with his doctor being blown to bits-

"_Focus! Calm down, we can do this. Breathe, Sherlock. You can figure this out, no need to panic, Mycroft won't hurt me. I think."_

The John in his mind palace spoke soothingly, adding a bit of dark humor to the end of his statement. It was entirely inappropriate, but it made Sherlock chuckle inwardly, and helped him keep from panicking again. Instead he looked hard at his brother, trying to find some kind of clue.

_He's wearing his tie with the little umbrellas on it; obviously he misses them. There's a wadded tissue on his desk, right by the place where he normally writes, and there's ink stains on it; he's been writing letters a lot today, and wiped off the ink stains he got on his hand. His shoes are still clean, and there's no evidence that he cleaned them; ergo, he has not left the office all day. So except for probably being the one to give the order-or else order that someone else give the order-Brother Mine was not directly involved in John's kidnapping. Typical._

Sherlock could find no clues; he hadn't really expected to. Mycroft smiled, seeing the disappointment in his eyes.

"I'll find him on my own," the detective finally declared in defiance.

"I highly doubt that. But even supposing you do, you won't be able to retrieve him without them."

That was significant; wherever he was being held, there were probably people with strict orders not to let him go until the umbrellas were returned. Maybe he could turn that to his advantage. But he didn't allow his excitement to show; he just stood up straight, and made to storm out of the office.

"Oh, and one more thing, Sherlock."

The detective paused with his hand on the doorknob, clenching it at the sound of Mycroft's superior tone.

"No fair tattling to Mummy."

His other hand surreptitiously moved off the speed dial button on his phone, both hidden in his coat pocket.

"Never even crossed my mind."

"Liar." There was the sound of Mycroft shuffling papers on his desk. Sherlock slammed the door after him.

*/**-*-***-/-*/*-*/-/***-*

The detective walked back down the street, considering all the places John could possibly be kept. Would Mycroft be more likely to take him far away from London, thus making it more difficult should he try to escape, or closer, the better to keep an eye on him? Hopefully close to or in London; that was probably the case, since he expected Sherlock to give in pretty soon, and it would be more convenient to retrieve the doctor. He'd have to get his homeless people to sniff around, search for any rumors or sightings. And while he was at it, he'd better warn them that Big Brother was on the lookout for his things, and might try to question some of them. He was so lost in thought that he didn't register at first the beep coming from his phone that meant a new text message. Finally he checked it: Lestrade again.

_**There's been an interesting homicide; you'll love it.**_

For once, Sherlock Holmes was not the slightest bit tempted. He sent back a terse reply: _**Not now, I'm busy.**_

But just as he was shoving the phone back in his pocket, it began ringing. He considered ignoring it, but finally answered with an irritable snarl.

"I said no! Just use your head for something besides holding up your ears and figure it out yourself!"

To his credit, Lestrade was not offended or intimidated. Instead he asked, "What happened to John?"

"What makes you think anything's happened to him, Gavroche?"

There was a long-suffering sigh. "Greg. My name's Greg. And you're turning down a homicide investigation. You wouldn't do that for anyone else. I'm not as stupid as you sometimes-I mean always-give me credit for being."

Sherlock finally answered, "My brother has borrowed him without permission. And I'm trying to figure out where he's being kept."

"Well, do you need my help?"

He was taken aback. Lestrade was probably busy with goodness-knows how many thefts, murders, assaults and batteries, and he was still offering to help find one man's missing friend who wasn't even in hostile hands (technically)? His knee-jerk response was a flat denial, and to declare that he could do this himself. But instead he said, "Maybe. I have to think first." Then, hesitantly, "Thanks."

"Any time."

Sherlock hung up, and went back to Mike's flat. Time to visit his mind palace.


	9. John Wakes Up

John woke up in a strange bed, in a strange room. As hackneyed and cliche a phrase as that is, it was the only phrase that could be used to accurately describe his situation. The first thing he noticed was that for once, he was completely warm. After the heat of Afghanistan, London never seemed quite warm enough, which was why he usually covered up in a woolly, wonderful jumper, regardless of how attractive others might find it. But here he was in a temperature that was perfect for him, a bit higher than most people normally liked it, comfortable despite wearing only the shirt, jeans and socks he'd had on before collapsing on the couch-before he'd been chloroformed! When he realized that, John sat bolt upright. The last of the fog cleared from his brain after a moment, and instantly he was out of the bed (he barely observed the silk sheets, or the rich green duvet) and bolting to the door.

It was unlocked, and when he yanked it open, John came out into what looked like the hallway of a fancy hotel. There was a fancy Oriental carpet on the floor, numbered doors all the way down the corridor, little pretty glass chandeliers up above-idly he wondered if a maid would show up to hoover the carpet at some point. So far, there was no one in sight. He leaned against the wall, allowing his racing heart to calm down, and then began making his way down the hall. John tried a few of the doors on the way, but aside from the one he'd just come out of, they all appeared to be locked. He filed this tidbit of news away for future reference, and continued on down the corridor, turning with it to the left. There was another hallway, but at the end this time there was an elevator. This place was feeling more and more like a hotel room all the time.

John approached the elevator, and noticed that according to the sign above it, he was on the 'B' floor. B for Basement? Most likely hypothesis. Good grief, Sherlock was rubbing off on him more and more all the time. With a shake of his head, John pressed the up button. He was unprepared for a robotic, female voice to say, "PLEASE GIVE VOICE CONFIRMATION TO ACCESS ELEVATOR."

"What the-" John swore in alarm, jerking away.

"VOICE IDENTIFIED: JOHN HAMISH WATSON. ACCESS TO ELEVATOR DENIED."

"Are you serious?"

"VOICE IDENTIFIED: JOHN HAMISH WATSON. ACCESS TO ELEVATOR DENIED."

"I swear, Mycroft, I will get you for this if it's the last thing I do," John muttered, stepping away.

"VOICE IDENTIFIED: JOHN HAMISH WATSON. ACCESS TO-"

"Oh, shut up. I get it, I'm not trying to go up anymore, see?" He moved further away. The elevator or computer or whatever the heck was talking ignored him, and kept informing him that access to the elevator was denied.


	10. Tea and Information

John considered trying to kick down the door of one of the other rooms to see if there were anymore exits, but there was no sign of his shoes, and he didn't want to risk a broken foot. So he wandered to the other side of the corridor, in case there was anywhere else to go. There apparently wasn't. So, resigned, he went back to his room. And found Anthea inside, laying a small table with tea and scones.

She smiled at him when he came in.

"There you are. I was hoping you'd be back before your tea got cold."

John stood in the doorway for a second, staring, before he finally came in. All he could think to say was, "You don't have your Blackberry." And flinched at how stupid that sounded.

Anthea replied, "There's no reception down here."

Her tone was harmless enough, but he caught the implication: even if he'd been able to bring his phone here, there was no way to contact Sherlock with it. Clever, Mycroft. Very clever. When Anthea finished laying the table, he came and sat down, figuring he might as well. As he began to select a scone, he suddenly asked, "This stuff isn't poisoned, is it? Or drugged?"

Anthea looked appalled that he would even consider such a thing. "Mr. Holmes doesn't want to hurt you, Dr. Watson."

"Then would you mind?" He cut a tiny piece off the scone, and pushed it in her direction. "Just humor me."

Without hesitation, she popped the bite into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Thus reassured, John began eating as well. He even tried the tea, trying not to be disturbed by the fact that it was prepared exactly how he liked it.

When his hunger and thirst were sated, he asked, "Just how long does Mycroft intend to keep me here? Wherever here is."

Anthea made no attempt to enlighten him as to his location. "Until the younger Mr. Holmes gives his umbrellas back."

He'd suspected as much. "Am I just going to be confined to this one room the whole time? Because if so, I might end up going completely stir-crazy."

"There is a gymnasium down the hall, complete with a swimming pool. There's also a library, and a television, but only a limited number of channels, I'm afraid."

"Is there a bathroom?"

"Of course. It's the door across from you."

Thank goodness for that. John had a sudden thought. "What about my job? They'll be wondering where I've got to."

"The hospital has already been informed that you are on an extended holiday."

He snorted. That was one way of putting things.

Anthea said with a smile, "We want your stay here to be as comfortable as possible, Dr. Watson. Tell me if you need something else, and I'll see what I can do to get it."

A sudden scenario ran through John's mind, reminiscent of an old episode of _Star Trek_, of him saying he wanted to contact Sherlock, or to go home, and Anthea replying in a robotic voice, "I am not programmed to respond in that area." It was so ridiculous that he covered his mouth to stifle a giggle. Anthea raised an eyebrow at him, but he didn't bother explaining, just got hold of himself, and said, "I think I'll be fine for now."

"All right. Good day, Dr. Watson." She stood up, and walked out of his room. After a second, John went to the door and peeked out after her. She went to the elevator and pressed the button. When the elevator demanded voice confirmation, she said her fake name, and was allowed in. John considered the possibility of trying to run down and get on with her, but there was probably some other catch. So with a resigned sigh, he paid a visit to the bathroom.

After that had been seen to, John returned to his room and sat down on the bed to think. The first thing that occurred to him was that somehow Anthea had come in and prepared tea _while he was down the corridor having a row with the elevator_. Therefore there must be another way into this area, through one of the other doors or a secret passageway or something. While he might not try to escape just yet, because he for one was not going to look the gift horse of being pampered for a bit in the mouth, at some point he would try to find it. The second thing was that there seemed to be no changes of clothes around, except a pair of swimming trunks in the bathroom, so they didn't expect to be keeping him here long. Having satisfied his thoughts of these facts, John decided to take a swim. It had been ages since he'd gone, and it would be good exercise for his shoulder.


	11. Sherlock Admits Defeat

It had been almost two days, and so far Sherlock was having no luck in locating John. Some of his homeless people had seen a black car drive into Mike's neighborhood the night John was captured, and had tracked it for a while, but had lost it in the traffic around Westminster. Nobody else had been able to find it. The irate detective paced through the streets in apoplectic frustration. He even went back to Baker Street, in case Brother Dear had been sneaky enough to put him back there, but only found that the skunk smell had not yet dissipated.

But the afternoon of the second day, Sherlock had some news. A homeless girl who was not a regular part of his network, and so did not get the message of his need for information until today, thought she had seen a car fitting the description of the one that had taken John drive up to the Diogenes Club, and two men carry someone else inside, but figured it was just a couple of blokes taking their drunk buddy home, and so had thought nothing of it. It was a testament to how much both having John in his life and playing dead for 2 years had changed him that Sherlock did not either start swearing a blue streak or pour a torrent of abuse on the girl's intelligence. All he did instead was offer a pound, and a "thank you" through gritted teeth, before sweeping off toward the club.

He waited until nightfall before breaking in. It was relatively easy, as long as he kept one step ahead of the CCTV cameras. Some club members were still there, snoring under their newspapers. Sherlock barely gave them a glance; if he knew Mycroft like he thought he did, John would not be in the main part of the building. No, he'd be kept down below somewhere. So, casually disguised in the uniform of the people who worked here, Sherlock Holmes descended the stairs into the depths of the club, where the kitchen and servants' space was. At first he had no luck; the rooms he checked, on the pretense of cleaning if anyone asked, were empty of John, and there was no evidence he had been in any of them. But he found success when he checked the lockers belonging to the workers: in one of them, he found John's jumper and shoes, all of which had been neatly cleaned and washed. So he was somewhere on the premises. With a smile of satisfaction, Sherlock removed the items and closed the locker, turning the combination back to zero. And promptly got the second stroke of luck of the day. As soon as the spinner was back at zero, the wall behind him slid aside, revealing a most peculiar door. It was made of metal, and even though he could see hinges, there was no apparent knob. Also, the middle had what looked like a circle cut into it, and was set about with ten holes. When Sherlock came closer and examined them, he realized that they were cut in such a way that they would accommodate ten umbrella handles. He could even see the way you had to stick the handle in, and then turn it. It was like the umbrellas were bloody keys.

"I did tell you, didn't I?" Mycroft said, stepping out of the doorway. "There's no way you will be able to get to him unless you return the umbrellas. Even I can't get to him without them."

Sherlock slowly turned, refusing to show surprise at his brother's success in sneaking up on him. Seeing Mycroft's oh-so-superior smirk set his teeth on edge.

"What is this, a bunker?"

"Of course. Where else would I go if I were here and a nuclear war started all of a sudden?"

"So this can't be the only entrance. You're so overly cautious you'd have at least one back way in. I'll just find that."

Mycroft sighed, putting on his tired-older-brother face. "It's true, there is another way in. But it's been computer programmed to only allow one person in or out, and it cannot be programmed otherwise without my command. Which I certainly will not give until my demands are met. Furthermore, I will not allow you to leave this room until they are met."

Sherlock scoffed; did he really think that he could keep Sherlock in here if he didn't want to leave? The pair of thugs suddenly standing in the doorway said that yes, he could. It was creepy how much like Moriarty Mycroft was at times.

"Think carefully, Sherlock. Is your pride really worth all of this?" He looked as though he was about to lean on his umbrella, before remembering at the last moment that it was not there. Sherlock strained his brain, trying to find a way out...and came up with nothing. Much as he might loathe to admit it, he was beaten. D- and blast Mycroft. He pulled out his phone, and sent out a text calling in all troops.


	12. The Aforementioned Fluffiness-Beware!

John was propped against the headboard of his bed, reading _The Hobbit_. It had been one of his favorite books as a child; he'd even gone as Bilbo one Halloween, and remembered being very angry with Harry when she commented that he was just the right size for a hobbit. He hadn't read it for years, but today he'd found it in the library, and now was at the part where Bilbo was playing a game of riddles with Gollum. John even found himself reading it out loud, doing different voices for the characters. He couldn't quite manage Gollum's voice, but Bilbo was easy enough.

Suddenly, he heard a _ding_ from down the hall that meant someone was coming down in the elevator. Curious, John set the book aside, and looked outside. And felt an immediate burst of joy to see Sherlock coming out of the elevator and making his way down the corridor. Even if he was unusually dressed in a tuxedo, white shoes and gloves. He tore out of his room and came bounding up, stopping about a foot away. As he did, he saw his friend's eyes widen.

"Hey, good to see-"

John was interrupted by Sherlock closing the distance between them and doing something he had only ever seen him do with their landlady.

_This is...unusual. Okay, calm down, consider this bit by bit so it'll be easier to understand._

_Sherlock is touching me._

_I can live with that. Though he doesn't do it often, Sherlock isn't completely averse to touching me when he thinks necessary, such as spinning me around to jog my memory, or tearing a jacket that is laden with explosives off of me, or taking my hand to help me keep up when we're handcuffed together and running from the police._

_Sherlock has both arms around me, and is holding me against him._

_...Okay. That's not too bad. He might find a reason to do that. Some logical reason._

_Sherlock is hugging me oh gosh the world is coming to an end._

Hesitantly, the doctor lifted his arms and hugged Sherlock back. Part of his brain wanted to comment that people would probably talk, but he managed to keep it silent, and only said, "I missed you too."

Sherlock pulled away pretty soon after that, and John noticed that he was blushing. That must have been a very knee-jerk course of action.

"I...brought you your jumper. And your shoes." He held them up as evidence. John smiled.

"Thanks. The temperature in here is nice and all, but when we leave I'll need the jumper. ...We are allowed to leave, aren't we?"

"Yeah." The detective looked down slightly. "I-I gave him back the umbrellas."

"You what?!"

"I was forced to admit defeat. As much as it pained me to do so."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I need tea, and you're one of the only people I know who can make a decent cup."

John rolled his eyes at his friend's attempt to cover up his previous display of sentiment. "Let me get something."

He went to his room, and came back with the book. Then he put on his shoes, and said, "Ready."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "A children's book?"

"It's not just for children. And it's one of my favorites."

The detective made a harrumphing noise, and they walked back to the elevator. As they passed the gym, John commented, "For a prison, this place isn't half bad. I might ask Mycroft to kidnap me here again sometime."

Sherlock looked definitely indignant at that. "A gilded cage is still a cage. How can you say that?"

"Well, it's just the right temperature for me for once, the food's good, there's an indoor pool, there were books and television-it's almost perfect."

The detective looked away, scowling.

"But," John continued, "it was missing one thing that would make it perfect."

"What, a female companion?" Sherlock sneered.

"You weren't there."

Sherlock's ruffled feathers quickly smoothed themselves down. As they reached the elevator, he finally said, "You know, it's comments like that which make people think-"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"Don't ruin the moment."


	13. Finale: John Takes a Turn

The elevator no longer denied John access to the elevator, much to his relief. It opened to reveal Mycroft and Anthea, the former looking very smug and leaning on one of his newly-retrieved precious umbrellas, the latter looking as cool and unruffled as ever, and carrying her jacket stylishly over one shoulder.

"No snide comments, little brother?" Mycroft asked as they stepped in, smirking. Sherlock just scowled, and looked away. He barely paid attention as John asked permission to keep _The Hobbit_, and Mycroft gave his gracious consent.

When the doors of the elevator opened again, they were in the entryway to the bunker, which, now that Sherlock thought about it, was kind of like an enormous bank vault. Sherlock stomped out into the cooler temperature, and noticed that John immediately shrugged his way into his jumper. He then gallantly helped Anthea put on her jacket, while the detective retrieved his regular attire. Soon enough he and John were out the doors of the Diogenes Club, and hailing a cab that would take them back to Mike's place.

As they pulled away from the curb, Sherlock finally said, "You were right."

"Huh?"

"When you said that whenever you get caught in the crossfire between us, something bad happens to you. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, it wasn't that big a deal this time. It's not like he was keeping me in a padded cell."

Sherlock nodded, and tried to smile. But inwardly, the canker of hurt was still gnawing away; he'd been humiliated by his brother at John's expense, however much he protested that he didn't mind, and the game was officially over. It had been fun, though. They'd have to do it again sometime.

Then he noticed John pull something small out of his pocket. He looked over at Sherlock, the picture of innocence and mildness, similar to after shooting that murderous cabbie. Because clutched in his hand was Anthea's Blackberry.

"It was in her jacket pocket, I just happened to, you know."

After a half-second of shock, the detective's face split into an incredibly wide grin. "John, that-you-you do realize Mycroft is going to murder you?"

"Yeah, but I figured it was my turn to play. After all, you two have been taking all the turns in this game." Then John's facade of nonchalance broke, and he began giggling along with his best friend.

Granted, they had not gone three blocks before they were stopped by an entire squadron of black cars, and forced at gunpoint to give back the phone. But it had totally been worth it to remind Mycroft that as powerful as he might be, they could always get the last laugh.


End file.
